Lady Helena Rowley was a creature of habit.
For her, there was no greater comfort than the knowledge that everything was 'as it ought to be'; the simple satisfaction of the quiet, orderly life she had painstakingly constructed for herself. No nasty shocks; no unexpected surprises; there was no room for uncertainty of any sort in the meticulously-run household of Alverton Hall.
Helena privately felt she had been made for the role of mistress of the house. Although laden with the responsibility at rather a younger age than most – her mother having passed on when Helena was just fourteen – to her credit, the practical young girl had plunged headfirst into the world of household budgets, purchasing of supplies, and charitable visits without a murmur. At the time it had simply been an ideal distraction from the yawning chasm of grief deep inside her – but over the course of the past five years, Helena had taken great pleasure in creating an organised system to ensure the smooth running of her dear father's impressive home.
By now all thirty members of household staff were well acquainted with Lady Helena's insistence on precision and punctuality. The daily schedule ran like clockwork, and everyone from Helena down to the scullery maids knew exactly what was supposed to occur at each part of the day.
Upon entering the breakfast room on this particular morning, however, Helena found herself faced with a rather nasty surprise. Lord Alverton did, indeed, occupy his usual chair at the head of the table, and he was, as ever, completely immersed in the newspaper. Notably absent, however, was the usual selection of preserves to accompany the fresh rolls – and with a sinking heart, Helena remembered the week's food order she had meant to provide for Mrs Potter, the housekeeper, yesterday. Normally Helena would never forget such a thing; but throughout the previous afternoon, she had foolishly allowed herself to become distracted by fanciful musings about a certain man who occupied her thoughts far too often lately.
Helena sighed in frustration; this was her first sign that it was to be a bad day.
"I am terribly sorry, Papa," she told Lord Alverton regretfully as she slid into her usual seat adjacent to her father's. "I fear we are to have no marmalade with our rolls this morning, for the arranging of the food order yesterday slipped my mind entirely."
"Not to worry, my dear," muttered Lord Alverton unconcernedly, barely lifting his gaze from the tiny print he was currently poring over.
Sometimes Helena wondered why she worried herself to such an extent over achieving perfection in the upkeep of Alverton Hall. Though the extensive redbrick building had been home to the Rowley family for almost two centuries, the current Earl of Alverton felt no strong attachment towards the house – for upon his death, it was to pass out of the hands of the Rowleys, into those of his nephew, Sir Edmund Wills.
No, Lord Alverton cared not how his household was run; not since Lady Alverton's tragic death in childbirth with their second child, who also did not survive, thus eliminating the possibility of an heir. A second marriage had been suggested by many an acquaintance – but the grief-stricken Earl refused to consider the prospect of taking another woman. His had been one of those rare and beautiful matches of love, and he could not imagine loving another as he had his dear Elaine for as long as he lived. Thus he remained decidedly unattached – and, much to Helena's sorrow, desperately melancholy even to this day.
Were it not for the all-consuming task of securing Helena a worthy match to occupy him with, Helena feared the melancholia would claim her father entirely. It often struck great fear in Helena's heart to wonder how on earth her father was to cope once she married, leaving him completely alone without anybody to manage the household. Lord Alverton wanted Helena to marry – it was his greatest desire to see his daughter settled – yet the reality of Helena's absence would near destroy him. They had, after all, been each other's only company for a great many years; her father would feel her absence sorely when the inevitable separation came.
And it would be coming anytime now...
As always when considering her potential upcoming betrothal, Helena found her mind unwittingly turning towards the man she truly wished she could marry.
"Any letters this morning, Papa?" enquired Helena hopefully.
She knew the answer before her father looked up from his newspaper, but that did not prevent the sorrowful lurch in her heart upon hearing his usual reply.
"Not today, my dear," muttered Lord Alverton, eyeing his daughter suspiciously. "I do wonder at your need to ask each morning, when we have not received a letter since the one from Miss Thorpe almost two weeks ago, informing us that she would be arriving today."
Helena sighed, frustrated. Yes, it was true that she and her father were not often written to – most of the people with whom they would correspond resided within the area surrounding Alverton, and so anything more than a short note was better spoken verbally.
There was one particular acquaintance of their family, however, currently significantly further afield. Joseph Godwin - Helena's oldest friend, and the man she loved - had left Britain to travel the continent in April, with the intention of returning in six months' time, or failing that, no later than Christmas.
It was now December – and, with only two weeks until Christmas Day, not a word had been heard from the nearby city of Chester, where Joseph's brother resided. Upon Joseph's departure, his sister-in-law had promised Helena most earnestly to write the moment of Joseph's return – and so Helena had been anxiously awaiting a letter each morning from the very first day in October, discomfort growing with each passing week of silence. At first it had been easy to convince herself that Joseph had been delayed, perhaps enjoying the exotic experience so much he wished to draw it out as long as possible. But as the twenty-fifth of December drew ever closer, it became impossible for Helena to refrain from imagining all kinds of terrible situations – some involving Joseph never returning home again.
No! Helena refused to torture herself with such dreadful possibilities. Instead, she turned her thoughts back to what her father had just said – and started as she suddenly realised that she had completely overlooked one particular part of his reply.
"Miss Thorpe is arriving today?" she yelped, upsetting the porcelain butter dish with an agitated twitch of the elbow.
Lord Alverton regarded his daughter's hysterical outburst with a raised eyebrow.
"Indeed she is – I had thought we discussed the matter at quite some length, when she initially wrote accepting my invitation."
"But..." stuttered Helena incredulously, certain of some terrible misunderstanding. How could she have failed to recall such an important detail as their house guest's arrival date?
"There is nothing prepared!" squeaked Helena, on the verge of tears. "I had not thought she was due to arrive for another week, at least!"
"How peculiar," mused Lord Alverton. "It is not like you to overlook such a detail. Now that I consider it, I feel you have not been yourself of late. Is something troubling you, Helena?"
Oh, how Helena wished she could share the cause of her internal turmoil! Ever since she had realised the extent of her feelings for Joseph, it had been Helena's greatest wish to voice her predicament aloud. The thought of discussing such delicate matters with the formidable Earl, however, caused Helena to break out in cold sweat. Although she may not have been blessed with a mother's presence as she reached adulthood, Helena knew well enough that such matters of the heart were certainly not to be discussed with one's father, at any cost. And so, agonising though it was to ponder her feelings for Joseph alone, Helena had succeeded in keeping the matter to herself all this time.
"I am terribly sorry for my lackadaisical behaviour, Papa," said Helena now, in an attempt to change the subject. "I shall speak to Mrs Potter at once, and see if something acceptable might not be scraped together for this evening's meal. Oh dear; what a dreadful beginning to Miss Thorpe's visit it shall be!"
"I shouldn't fret overly much, Helena," replied her father reassuringly. "It is likely the Thorpe girl is not used to such fine dining as we are accustomed to here at Alverton Hall. Her parents were not so very wealthy, you know."
Helena loved her father – truly, she did – yet she could not understand the overwhelming importance the Earl placed on the matter of whether one bore a title before their name. Her resentment towards this elitism had probably developed around the same time as her love for Joseph – who, as both a member of an untitled family, and a younger brother, was of little importance in Lord Alverton's eyes. Miss Thorpe, too, was clearly to be looked upon less favourably, simply as she was to be addressed as "Miss" rather than "Lady".
Still, Lord Alverton was not entirely without kindness. Miss Thorpe's parents had been great friends of the late Lady Alverton – so valued, in fact, that Lady Alverton and her husband had been named Miss Thorpe's godparents. Upon hearing that Miss Thorpe had been recently orphaned, therefore, Lord Alverton had written to her at once offering an invitation to stay at Alverton Hall for a time. Soon after, a letter signed by a Miss M. Thorpe had arrived at the breakfast table, stating her most sincere gratitude, and that they were to expect her within a fortnight.
According to her father, Helena had met with Miss Thorpe but once in her life – and Helena certainly had no recollection of the girl now. In her mind Helena had conjured up images of a timid, grief-stricken young maiden, and had resolved to ensure that Miss Thorpe find Alverton Hall as comfortable and welcoming as possible during this time of terrible sorrow. As the daughter of her mother's friend, Helena had felt a strong sense of duty to provide all means of hospitality she could possibly offer, knowing it would have been what Lady Alverton wanted.
How, then, had she managed to fail so abysmally already?
***
By the time the clock on the mantelpiece struck midday, Helena was settled comfortably in her favourite armchair surrounded by embroidery, feeling rather pleased with herself. Despite her father's warning not to overexert herself – which Helena, of course, had completely ignored – during the past couple of hours, she had succeeded in pulling together a rather sumptuous menu for dinner, in addition to arranging for the finest guest bedchamber to be aired and prepared for the arrival of their guest. Having herself added the finishing touches of some writing paper on the desk, and a vase of freshly-picked flowers to adorn the bedside chest, Helena felt assured that Miss Thorpe's first impression of Alverton Hall would be a favourable one.
After passing the best part of the morning scurrying about the house and gardens with great haste, the calm solitude of the drawing room should have been a welcome change – but not for Helena. No, idleness did not at all suit her; no sooner had she concluded her preparations than she was anxiously awaiting their guest's arrival.
Unfortunately, Helena was to have a long wait. The afternoon ticked by agonisingly slowly, punctuated by frequent bursts of movement from Helena as she leapt up to check the drawing room window for any sign of an approaching carriage. Three 'o' clock would usually see Helena and her father take a turn about the gardens, but such was Helena's agitation that she neglected this particular aspect of their daily routine, choosing instead to remain glued to the window seat where she had now taken up residence.
By the time Lord Alverton returned indoors, flushed from the exertion and chilly December air, the Earl's temper had worn thin.
"Helena, you have not moved a muscle since I left this room an hour ago!" he chided.
Helena, who had not noticed that her nose was now almost pressing against the windowpane, turned slowly to face her father as if emerging from a trance.
"The letter did say she was to arrive today; you are positive, Papa?" questioned Helena.
"I am quite sure," affirmed Lord Alverton, shuffling onto the nearest settee. "The day is not yet over; there is still plenty of time for Miss Thorpe to arrive."
"Indeed there is not!" scoffed Helena. "If Miss Thorpe does not arrive within the hour, we shall be faced with the terrible dilemma of whether we ought to have dinner without her, or wait out of cordiality and risk Cook's lamb going to ruin!"
Lord Alverton opened his mouth to reply – but just then, the pair were interrupted by the sound of a commotion in the hallway downstairs.
Helena stiffened instantly; commotions were not something she and her father were accustomed to at Alverton Hall. The only sounds usually heard along the deserted corridors of a winter's afternoon would be the merry crackling of the drawing room fire, or the distant tinkling of the pianoforte as Helena practised her scales. In fact, Helena could not recall the last time she heard raised voices within the house.
Brimming with curiosity – and a little indignation towards whomever it was daring to disturb the tranquillity within her home – Helena instantly made her way out of the drawing room to see what was going on. And a very strange scene indeed it was that met her eyes from her bird's eye view on the landing.
A pair of figures stood in the hallway, locked in what appeared to be a heated debate. One was familiar to Helena as Mr Allen, butler of Alverton Hall, who presently looked extremely flustered. The stranger, a female, had the most vivid red hair Helena had ever seen, and spoke in a strong northern accent, a great deal louder than was proper for a lady in company.
"Will you please wait here while I arrange for your luggage to be brought inside!" cried Allen exasperatedly. "Had we been expecting your arrival at this hour, I can assure you the footmen would have been stood on the drive waiting."
"Well, I have already brought half of it," countered the woman, gesturing to the large trunk at her feet. "It seems silly to send for the footmen, when we might convey the remainder of it ourselves this very moment."
"I will not have ladies carting heavy trunks about the place!" exclaimed Allen, seemingly taking great offence to have one think that sort of behaviour might be condoned by him. "It is not proper!"
"Nonsense!" laughed the woman; a genuine, throaty laugh quite unlike the ladylike tinkle Helena had spent several years perfecting.
Having been motionless and mesmerised on the landing while this exchange took place, Helena now decided it was time to intervene. Descending gracefully into the entrance hall, Helena's presence was not noticed until she was almost directly before the quarrelling pair – at which point poor Allen started violently, regarding his mistress with wide-eyed horror.
"Lady Helena!" he gasped, with a hasty bow. "I am so terribly sorry for the disturbance."
"Not at all," replied Helena, with an unconcerned wave of the hand. Allen had been at Alverton Hall Helena's entire life; more than long enough for Helena to know that he never performed his duties with anything less than complete professionalism. This mysterious young lady, therefore, was the cause of the commotion, and Helena turned a curious eye upon her now.
The woman looked, in Helena's opinion, rather ragged indeed. No garment was visible save for the shapeless grey cloak engulfing her frame, which drained any slight colour from the woman's fair face. Her mass of red hair was tied into a braid of some description, though several strands had come loose, so that they hung in front of her bright green eyes. Helena supposed she must not be older than eighteen or nineteen; though perhaps her slightly apprehensive look made her look younger than she truly was.
She must be a new maid, decided Helena. It was no wonder, therefore, that her arrival had caused Allen such great distress; staff were to use the back entrance of Alverton Hall, and certainly were not usually responsible for causing such public scenes in the entrance hall.
"I had not thought we were expecting any new additions, Allen," commented Helena. She took pride in knowing each and every member of staff at Alverton Hall; had she somehow managed to overlook the appointment of a new maid amidst everything else she had missed recently?
For some reason, Helena's words caused Allen to look rather uncomfortable. The new arrival, meanwhile, seemed puzzled.
"I had thought you were expecting me, Lady Helena," the woman addressed her, taking Helena completely by surprise. Where on earth had Allen found this girl? Clearly she had not taken a maid's position before; one of the very first rules to learn was that of not addressing the lady of the house unless spoken to first.
"Lady Helena, I..." began Allen, but Helena, incensed by the girl's rudeness, did not let him finish.
"I fear you have one or two things to learn before you begin your position here!" sniffed Helena haughtily. "Tell me, what is your name?"
It was at some point during that brief pause that Helena realised. Perhaps it was due to the complete look of horror and mortification on Allen's face; or maybe the piecing together of the girl's Yorkshire accent. Either way, Helena's stomach dropped with a near audible plop, as she came to understand, seconds too late, her grievous, grievous mistake.
"I am your guest," replied the girl. "I am Miss M. Thorpe."
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A/N: Uh oh! Looks like prim and proper Lady Helena has got herself into a bit of trouble! Who thinks her quiet, orderly life might be about to come to an end with the arrival of her guest? ;) Please vote if you enjoyed!